


Black Blood

by Seaneta



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, Breathplay, Community: hannibalkink, Finale Spoilers (kinda), M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 22:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5067493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seaneta/pseuds/Seaneta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After shooting and incapacitating Hannibal, Dolarhyde stabs Will, throws him down, and rapes him while Hannibal watches. Prompt Fill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Full Prompt from Round 8: After shooting and incapacitating Hannibal, Dolarhyde stabs Will, throws him down, and rapes him while Hannibal watches. Can go from there wherever the filler pleases! Bonus points for Dolarhyde referring to Will as Hannibal's wife.
> 
> Salvaged this fill from a forgotten folder, and found time to post this. Did anyone else enjoy the fact the season finale had little to no snow? It actually looked like the east coast! Also, heed the tags (though, if you've read other stories of mine, they probably don't surprise you).

Francis watched Will’s body roll after it hit the ground outside.

Landing on his stomach, once…twice…three times he tried to lift his upper half, but he was lightheaded and hands were slipping on his own blood. Francis could see it the short distance away, how black the red was as it stained a side of Will’s face and dripped down his neck. It contrasted in the bluish hue of the moonlight, landing on him to show the Dragon the blood as it covered righteous, pale flesh.

Francis looked down at Hannibal Lecter, the man still laying against the grand piano’s leg, still grasping at the bullet wound in his abdomen. Francis had aimed where it wouldn’t be fatal, just debilitating. It did the job. The camera continued to roll.

Hannibal stared after Will, watching as he tried to recover from the toss and, with a shaking hand, grabbed the knife’s handle protruding from his cheek. Hannibal only looked back at their assailant when he began to move again, Francis’s hands slipping the black belt from around his waist and flinging it on Hannibal’s bleeding lap. Hannibal’s face screwed up, twisting. The flash of genuine care for Will was brief, but Francis let it fuel the growing fire for the Dragon. Watching the film would be remarkable all on its own, seeing Dr. Lecter die while showing compassion for the FBI profiler. But like he said earlier, the physical act of it will be even more wonderful.

He dumped his belt on Dr. Lecter’s lap before stalking towards Will, the Dragon’s wings sprouting from his back and flapping as they stretched, trying to stab the sky.

Lunging down, he kicked the discarded knife away from Will and, containing his strength, rolled him into his back. He was strong because the Dragon ran so freely through him, hands grasping and pinning frail arms by Will’s sides. He held Will so tightly blood ceased its flow to his hands. Large thighs shoved between Will’s own, forcing them apart.

Already this was different from Reba. Winter skin threatened to blind him against the moonlight, while cinnamon flesh had mixed with the dress draped in sunlight. And Will was below him, smaller than what he imagined: the memory of the elevator and throwing him against the wall somehow misleading. Blood covered half of Will’s face. He was a ruined painting. He was meant for the Dragon. Reba had only wanted the man behind it.

Francis roared like the beast he embodied, mouth wide and black, body contorting as he crouched on top of Will, back moving in odd angles as shoulder blades jutted out. Will grimaced from the noise, birds -owls- flying away from nearby trees as the bellow broke through nighttime’s silence. This wasn’t a man above Will, this wasn’t Francis Dolarhyde. The body was immense, terrifyingly strong and large. His shadow enveloped Will, his eyes couldn’t see anything but black and his nose was overwhelmed with a scent of oil and sweat.

“ _Hannibal’s wife,_ ” he said the words slowly, punctuating each syllable, but they still came out like a slither.

Will choked on the phrase, or maybe it was the blood trickling down his throat.

“His….becoming,” Spit fell on Will’s face. “ _My_ …becoming. You betrayed Dr. Lecter. But your…compassion for him…it led you to betray me. You,” he sauntered close, back flaring, and Will thought his arms would snap from the pressure. “You are in my vision now.”

Will gave his own version of a battle cry, trying to flail, trying to flip the beast over. He couldn’t see the sky over the bulk of Francis’s shoulders. It was difficult to breathe over the scent of grease and from the pressure on his chest. Eyes avoided the face looming so close to his, darting in panic and searching for the fallen knife.

“Stop,” Francis’s voice was rough, like he hadn't spoken in years. He swallowed. “Don’t move.” Will’s eyes shifted every which way, glowing with anxiety, looking at him then not. His face had been close to Francis in the motel room. How delicious. Beautiful. _A woman, a_ man _, clothed with the sun, with the moon under his feet and a crown of stars on his head._

Will could see Hannibal through the shattered window, but he didn’t want to look long enough to read him. Hannibal had the perfect view to Will’s demise, just as he had seconds earlier with him. Hannibal would watch Francis bite off his lips, rip his limbs apart, throw the pieces of him off the cliff. Luck was fickle.

Motions animalistic, Francis’s mouth opened, sucking in air like a black hole, and then he descended on Will’s face, similar to how he had lunged onto Chilton.

The teeth never came.

Instead his mouth clamped around Will’s lips and he pressed onto him even more, suffocating Will between himself and the cobblestones. He kissed Will, plunging down and taking blood-spattered lips between his. It was deep, stinging Will’s entire body. Francis tasted like he smelled, mixed with blood. Teeth clashed and a tongue rampaged along Will’s lips before they finally got the hang of the kiss. Francis only had to smash his face against Will’s to keep his head in place, the incident in the museum reminding him that the man was unbelievably fit. He held Will tight, and overcoming his enthusiasm, he began to really kiss him. Like a lover would.

Reba attracted the man behind the monster. Will didn’t lie to her at the hospital. What Reba shared with him hadn’t been the Dragon. But this, as Francis compassed his entire oral cavity and crushed his nose, this was the beast. Successfully cut off from his last outlet for oxygen, Will’s shoes left scruff marks on the stones as he strived to throw the body off him. Legs finally stilled around Francis’s thighs when a tongue flicked into his mouth and made residence.

It wasn’t how Will imagined this would end. It didn’t fit with the scheme that played out in his head. Setting fire to his own house and almost killing Reba had been a ruse to fake his death. But no one thought the spectacle had been another kind. Will hadn’t thought he was replacing the woman with someone else.

Will wasn't physically able to give pleading eyes toward Hannibal, despite being completely okay with the idea of a repeat performance in the prison cell. _Please. Pretty please._ He couldn’t do this on his own. _I didn’t expect this._ He was sure Hannibal hadn’t either.

Will couldn’t move his head to beg. He couldn’t even breathe. Relying on Hannibal to save him or Francis having a breakthrough was slim, but his arms were numb at the sides and his legs felt like twigs compared to Francis’s thighs like tree trunks.

Will only had two experiences with Francis’s strength before this. The first time he had grabbed Will by the jacket and threw him, effortlessly, against the elevator’s wall, nearly touching the ceiling. The second time was inside the motel room. He came fast and unforgiving, slamming Will against the wall and smothering a foul cloth against his face. Both times were petrifying. And now, having that strength used against him for this long of a time, fear and dread overwhelmed him.

Like a reptile, Francis trailed his tongue deeper into Will’s mouth, tracing teeth and trying to catch his own recoiling tongue. He kept flicking it in and out of the mouth and Will scraped the bottom of his lungs for remains of air to scream. He felt the tongue prodding through the cut in his cheek, slipping through the hot tissue and tearing it wider. It was more painful than disturbing, but mortifying above all else; this was the sickest game of revenge Will could conjure. Francis wanted Hannibal to watch. Force him to reap what he sow.

The blade to his face would have done the job quite well. But it seemed Francis still wanted to complete the Dragon’s vision. He wanted to change Hannibal by changing Will.

 

 

_My compassion for you is inconvenient._

As he took the scene in, Hannibal’s mind grew silent. He didn’t bother twisting in his position, and simply watched. Seconds passed before he had to pause and look at the ground near by, but then he flicked back to the pair repeatedly with a flared nose, his head firing back up, almost praying the sight not be real. Hannibal enjoyed being in the center of Will’s universe. If Will was the sole person his life revolved around, he expected the favor in return.

Will was struggling against Francis, eyes closed, and Hannibal realized the man may not be making much of a distinction between the two serial killers. Something twitchy, edgy overcame him, making any pain he could have felt subside for later.

There was no way Will could make such comparisons to the body currently on top of him with Hannibal. All killers didn’t look the same to Will. And, if they did, Hannibal would enlighten him of the mistake. After all the people he killed, Will’s friends and surrogate daughters, after all the attempted murders of proxy wives, after all that he’d done, it wasn’t possible that he’d let himself be pushed into obscurity. And by a Dragon no less.

 

The serpentine tongue withdrew, satisfied, but the airtight seal around Will’s mouth stayed. Will couldn’t tell his vision blurred because everything was already so dark. Lungs shriveled. He thought the tongue leaving would be his last conscious mental process, but then Francis exhaled, the mouth still locked.

Will’s chest expanded.

There was little oxygen he could take from Francis’s version of CPR, but it helped. It was strange, unnatural feeling, and no shower could rid him of such an intimate violation.

Francis was kissing him and providing him oxygen, and he sank deeper onto Will’s body to feel the small chest rise with the air he gave. It was art. Will whined underneath him, trembled in the Dragon’s presence, shimmered beneath his hands in the moonlight. He pulled back to capture the complete picture, teeth grabbing onto a bloody lip for a second, biting and pulling just a smidgen too hard. Francis tore at the button-down, the light of the moon bathing more of the body as it gasped and shuttered with loud gaping breaths. Reba made him want to drown the Dragon, but Will enticed him to relish in it. The blood spotting along the angles of the body looked black, like melted chocolate, like a dark beverage he wanted to drink.

 

_I would say it is inconvenient to be compassionate toward a cow._

Hannibal stared at the sight of the two dark figures on the ground, faces pressed together. Will’s shirt was a ripped mess along his sides, pants inelegantly shoved down and bunched around his knees; the work of someone who didn’t really care and that fact made Hannibal’s eyes sting green with jealousy. His stomach curled, not from the small gash on his side. Francis already had his chance with someone that could made him better than what he was. Francis wasn’t going to take his.

 

Francis stooped his head down and bit on one of Will’s exposed nipples, feeling the body jerk toward his mouth and then promptly away from it, a grunt slipping through Will’s tortured mouth. Those same teeth had ripped off Chilton’s lips, had killed and violated so many victims in the fragile shine of moonlight. Feeling Will’s lively body recoil and shiver with goosebumps, Francis teased the other nipple before biting at it sharply, tilting eyes up to watch the man gasp and arch off the ground.

Will _was_ beautiful like this. Hannibal stared, not stopping himself from wanting what Francis had. He couldn’t rip eyes away from the sight of Will, the way he arched his back, hair mangled and cheeks hot. A rouge thought made Hannibal consider letting Francis have a go just a little longer. Just to be the watchful spectator and reap the benefits of the show. But Hannibal wanted that for himself. He always imagined what something as intimate like that would be like with a man like Will Graham. He suspected it would be something close to what Francis made him into. He knew he could conjure more intense reactions, at least.

Will felt the most brutal case of pins and needles as blood surged back into his arms. He swallowed large breaths as Francis traveled the length of him. One of the hands unfastened his pants zipper as the other shoved the remains of his tattered shirt away from his chest. Francis was about to do something Will didn’t want to process, the shards of glass around them both reminding him of The Great Red Dragon’s MO.

He refused to look at Hannibal inside the house, though it was obvious Francis was granting him leeway. His imagination was deadly, already knowing the other man was a bit shell-shocked. He didn’t have to see his eyes to read them. So he shut his own eyes instead and shaking hands came back to life.

Will flew his hands to hook around the wide neck. He tried to crush Francis’s trachea, block off his airway so he’d, at least, topple off of him.

When Francis retched his arms away, another pair swept from behind and hoisted the man to a forced stand and wobble. Francis roared, bellowing as Hannibal pulled him away from Will by swinging the belt he discarded earlier around his neck. Hannibal didn’t stop until Francis stumbled back far away enough from the fallen man, then he wrapped the belt even tighter around the airway.

Francis reached behind him and crouched, throwing Hannibal over his head but the action made both men fall onto the cobblestones. Despite the amount of blood on his shirt, Hannibal maneuvered onto Francis. Before Francis could register the weight on him, a heavy punch on the right side of his face made his left crack against the ground. Hannibal managed to land one more hit before Francis reached up and grabbed onto his back. He tossed the other man over his shoulder and turned, switching their positions in one seamless motion.

Will immediately pushed himself over, the stones cool on his bare stomach. With a new range of motion, he spotted the knife’s glint in the moonlight. Body sore from being pressed onto the deck, he felt the kinks in his body pop as he crawled toward the blade. He couldn’t stop a dirty hand coming up, cupping his bloody cheek and the slice done to his face. It wasn’t a Cheshire smile, but the pain still made his face expressionless, any movement of facial muscles stinging horribly.

There were sounds of exertion behind him and he chanced a glance back only once, watching as Hannibal, despite the bullet wound, deliver a critical blow to Francis’s gut, right below the diaphragm. The knife was by the bigger rocks, a thin barrier between the house’s porch and a long fall over the cliff. Years ago, when Hannibal bought the safe-house, there must have been more of a yard to only tempt danger.

Will heard a grunt from Hannibal as Francis bellowed. Hannibal had come for him, now Will would do the same.

He slid another knee up to his waistline, close enough to make a quick reach for the blade. _Grab the knife, try to stand_. Footsteps clamored on the stones behind him, a little too quick and heavy to be Hannibal’s. Will lunged for the weapon, hurried, and suddenly a large hand grabbed his arm and another wrapped around a chunk of his hair. Francis slammed his head onto the ground, letting go, pausing for a moment to watch Will try to clear the haze.

Francis dragged the man back toward the center of the deck by an ankle, where a fallen Hannibal lay. He was on his side, hands clasped behind his back but Will didn’t know how Francis could do that with a belt. He tugged Will close to the cannibal, just out of reach, and Will could see the gash in his friend's stomach began to bleed anew. Both of them breathed quickly, unevenly, eyes meeting with one thought; _we need to kill him_.

Will knew no one would be leaving the property tonight. He already made his peace with the design, he knew he couldn’t go back to his job with the FBI, much less to Molly and Walter. He looked away when Francis grabbed one of his legs to swing him around on his ass, adjusting. It hurt to protest, but Will kicked the attacker away and tried to lunge up, teeth bared regardless of the sting, but Francis pressed him back down. He fell on his knees then, and took just a few steps before crawling over Will, a low growl deep in his throat. The man flaunted his own teeth, and even with his black clothes Will could see him maneuver strangely over him, _like a Dragon_ , and his muscles undoubtedly flexed as he honed the monster.

Will wouldn’t let him.

He lashed at the wide chest up above, trying to shove his knees up to push him off, but Francis immobilized him. One hand immediately went to his face, two fingers jabbing into the hole in Will’s cheek while the other hand went to his pants. Will shouted, feeling him inside his mouth, and relented with a shriek. The hand drew back.

“You watch, Dr. Lecter.” Legs rooted between slim ones, scooting and spreading them as Francis loomed above the smaller man. “Or I’ll rip off your eyelids and make you.”

Hannibal breathed heavily already, so the scoff went undetected. He stared with intensity before Francis had threatened him, not once considering the possibility of The Great Red Dragon not just changing Will, but wanting him too. Will was much more than an _inconvenience_ now. The imminent threat of Francis told him something his calculating mind couldn’t register. He had wanted to kill Francis _with_ Will, show the man how beautiful it could be, but now he would be fortunate to even land a hit once he was finished with Francis. There wouldn’t be anything to hit but Dragon pulp.

And so Hannibal looked at Will, willing him to wage war, and flicked lethal eyes up to Francis as he positioned himself, and to him he promised an unhurried death.

The shadows along Will’s body looked like they were chiseled on unsoiled marble. Francis only touched something as elegant as Reba. But this man was the partner of Hannibal, this sort of rough delicacy came with the territory. When he entered Will, the man exposed the sensitive curve of his neck, turning his head with crunched eyes as a rivulet of blood dribbled out from a gash. Francis pounced, mouth wide as he captured the many strings of frail blue veins under the flesh. He could feel Will’s pulse, it fluttering like a trapped bird. He pushed in and out of him quickly, wanting to finish as powerful and quickly as possible.

Meanwhile Will’s chest felt tight from the inside, the feeling close to guilt. Through the string of emotions he bounced through at a constant pace, guilt was probably the craziest. He was in what was best described as a complicated relationship with Hannibal, but it wasn’t any sort of relationship that should warrant such an odd feeling. This wasn’t consensual, and yet Will couldn’t help but feel accountable for what was happening. Something as…personal as this shouldn’t have been stolen by Francis Dolarhyde. This act shouldn’t have been _observed_ by Hannibal. He knew, he _knew_ Hannibal didn’t move these chess pieces for this to happen. He didn’t make this happen because he was curious at what Will would do, in fact, he suspected the man wanted to trade places with Francis instead.

It scared Will when he thought things like that, where he admitted that he understood Hannibal. But he understood him better than Will understood anyone else he ever encountered in his life. When they played their game, he never felt so alive. He never felt more like himself.

And so he honed that feeling, eyes snapping open.

 

Hannibal watched those brown, amber eyes sparkle. Will turned his head to share a knowing look toward Hannibal, the glimpse telling him everything Will felt, something deep from within. It was so raw and more intimate than anything Francis could hope to aim for. No one would ever witness that look in his eyes, and it seemed that Hannibal was always honored with exceptions when it came to Will. His eyes hit the very core of him. And then his hand, gripping a knife, plunged deep into Francis’s chest.

Will had retched his hand free from Francis’s grip, diving for something under his back before coming up with a knife coated in his own blood. He struck it as close as he could to Francis’s heart, fighting through the fire he felt between his legs. The blade found purchase in the man’s body, but it connected at the junction of Francis’s shoulder and torso. It wasn’t his heart. It was a completely useless spot, no matter how painful. But Will worked with the frustration, not letting go as he jammed the knife inside even deeper. He joggled the blade, making the stab jagged and big, before Francis got a proper hold of him. Will shouted when he felt his wrist dislocate the same time he thrusted even harder inside. Nothing had ever been that deep before, the sensation utterly foreign and hard to work through. Did Francis see him as the woman depicted in the painting? Did they both have to climax before the kill? What was the catch, _the purpose-_

“Fran-”

The man bared his teeth, his lips already bruising. Will supposed his didn’t look that much different. Francis pinned the hand that wasn’t injured above Will’s head. He had to lean even more along Will to do that, making his length disappear even deeper inside, dark and short curls able to rest on Will’s own soft length. Will shouted when he felt the walls of muscle contract around him and, invigorated, plunged the knife deep into Will’s captured hand. He dug the blade through flesh until it hit a crevice between two stones, lodging it in place to ensure both hands wouldn’t be a problem anymore. Maybe it was better than Reba. With Will Graham, Francis had to keep proving himself worthy to the Dragon and not worry about the transgression of suppressing it. The wings bellowing from his back never faltered nor did he try to stop the becoming. The power surged through him.

Will shouted, feeling Hannibal’s gaze, immensely grateful he never chose to speak. His eyes which held that dangerous glimmer was already too difficult to ignore.

Francis lurched again, but this time Will was ready. As he ducked down to clamp lips on his neck yet again, Will turned his head to bite at the closest thing he could; his ear. Will had only tasted raw flesh once, biting into the face of Dr. Cordell at Mason’s estate, but it was much more rewarding. Will held nothing back, teeth piercing as he let his jaw lock around the piece of skin like it was a grilled steak. It was grossly sweet on his tongue, something like sugary lamb and copper filling his mouth before he spat a large piece of ear to the side. He kept spitting, dizzy, in pain, but distinctly heard a sour, “ _Bite his neck, Will_.” somewhere behind him.

It was hard to move; a knife pinned his hand to the ground, his other hand dislocated, and his legs were not only trapped by Francis’s, but they were also tangled with his disheveled pants. The Great Red Dragon had blood trailing from his mouth and mixing with drool as he sat up. One of his hands came up to hold the gash on the side of his head and Will pushed himself away, feeling the invading length leave him. He could breathe again.

Quickly, Will scooted closer to his pinned hand, and with his swelling wrist, he wiggled the knife until it was loose enough to yank out. The same moment Will shouted from the sting, Francis attacked, desperate to complete the act.

“Don’t-do-this!”

Will wildly flung the knife all the while scooting away with his knotted legs. A bloody hand tugged his underwear back up for some remaining shred of dignity. But Francis came, stalking, standing, pursuing him with deliberately heavy steps as his tall frame blocked out the moon. Face shrouded with blood and shadows, he looked demonic, beyond games. Even with one hand holding up his fitted jeans, Will felt a tremor run through him as he inched back on his ass. That beast had been on top of him, had been inside him, not even a stab to the torso had slowed him down.

But a violation between Will’s legs definitely halted his progress. In a last effort, he held the knife out in front of him ready to strike, not even going to try to come to a pathetic stand and risk falling down like a bag of sand. Francis was coming, ready or not.

A new shadow caught Will’s eye. He went against instincts and didn’t look behind Francis, knowing the man would read his eyes well enough to turn around. Instead he stopped his backwards crawl so the man would stop too. He looked up at Francis, bracing for another pounce that never came.

In a blink, Hannibal jumped on Francis’s back. Arms in a strong chokehold, he did what Will couldn’t and bit into the pulse point of the other man’s neck. Like a true cannibal it was a fatal bite, blood spurting the moment Hannibal pulled away. His legs jumped back on the ground, holding Francis by his waist with arms trapped on either side. Will took the cue, gathering himself up as fast as he could, and he lunged with the knife. The gutting was swift, extending from one side to the other. Blood from his neck splattered Will’s forehead until he backed away, breathless and hurt. Both Francis and Will stumbled before falling, and he watched Francis’s eyes as they grew wide until, finally, went dull. He fell limp on his side and blood spilled. There was so much blood. The phrase bloodbath never made as much sense as it did right then, the entire stone deck covered with a warm red blanket.

Hannibal wiped hot liquid off his face with his sweater. He rolled up both sleeves then, breath evening out, as Francis’s body bled dry.

Will threw the knife somewhere to his left. Francis’s eyes were still open, a finger twitching before it stopped forever. So much still dribbled from him.

“You…were right. It is beautiful.”

“Are you all right?”

Will’s face was gashed open. Blood began to spot in the middle junction of his jeans. His wrist hurt. His other hand had a hole in it. “I’ll live.”

When they locked eyes, both stared and cataloged each other’s injuries. Filed away the blood almost covering every piece of exposed skin.

“Good.” Hannibal didn’t say anything else. He closed the distance between them and kneeled over Will, falling on top clumsily and quick. Their bodies aligned, fitting together perfectly. Francis hadn’t, when he crouched over Will. With Hannibal, everything was different.

Hands pressed on his chest, stopping Hannibal just as a few centimeters as he touched Will’s forehead. Will pushed, but Hannibal wouldn’t allow a budge. Usually some kind of force, a struggle, was enough to shake the man, but this wasn’t the usual situation. This wasn’t the usual calculating, game-playing Hannibal. Everything was different.

He pressed into Will, their slippery skin touching which brought a jolt to them both.

“So ready. To leave.” Hannibal spoke between breaths. “The Dragon is dead. Now it’s just me. Will.”

“I know.” They stared at each other, the soft noise of the ocean filling the silence. Lungs caught their fill. “I know.”

Hannibal was above him now, stars on both sides of his face. They edged into a frenzy similar to the one seconds ago, both feverish that couldn’t be explained with the injuries they held. They were not murdering someone, but there was still a climax expected. Something changed between them the moment Will and Hannibal committed the murder. 

Will was beautiful in the moonlight. Eyes dark, lips bruised and bloody, hair windswept. Anything clean about this would be wrong. Hannibal’s hands went to his ass as he lifted him, making the slightest sound from his injury but too stubborn to care, and he inched them a few inches away until just Hannibal’s shoes touched the pooling blood of Francis. Pants were tugged down and Will wrapped his arms around firm shoulders, his legs locking around Hannibal’s hips. He grabbed onto the bloody sweater. They kissed as a wave crashed far below the cliff.

Another jolt rocked through them and long fingers swept up to fan over the small of Will’s back. Hannibal pressed him tighter against himself and Will adjusted, spreading thighs wider. There were no more secrets, no double meanings or bushes to beat around. Walls were down. Hannibal was no longer a liar, feigning indifference despite the obvious. He lifted Will's hips just so, admiring the view and burning it to his memory. Hannibal could appreciate what admiration Francis probably had felt for Will like this.

Hannibal rooted his hips neatly between bloody thighs and Will watched as Hannibal bent over him, admiring. 

He was a predator just as Francis was, but Will wasn’t afraid. Fingertips slipped up his thighs, and they sunk beneath the bottom of his back as he wrapped his arms around Will. Hannibal drew his chest up to he could pay more attention to the body, dragging a skilled tongue across skin and scraping just the barest promise of teeth against.

Hannibal came back up, sitting on his heels, and looked down at Will again, ready for something that had been long overdue. Too long denied. He reached down and grasped knees, spreading them until they stayed in place.

If they expected song birds and shooting stars to suddenly surround them, they were in the wrong story. It was painful, bloody, and, if anything, Will thought the cliff could crumble with them still on it. It was anything but perfect.

But it was still sublime.

When Hannibal entered, he pushed inside with an eagerness Will could physically feel. He felt floodgates breaking down, years of anguish releasing in the form of two droplets hanging off an eyelash. As they did this, Hannibal's face made Will nearly want to come right then and there, and their faces clashed before managing a wild rhythm of kisses and bucks. Will’s hands roamed up over Hannibal’s shoulders and chest, skimming over blood and sweat beading on skin. Pain was pushed to the sidelines. They soon both closed their eyes, letting the sensations overtake them, until Will couldn't hold back and flipped their positions. He sat atop, doing the work, knowing of Hannibal's precarious injury, but also so he had some control. He needed it. 

Will was the first to shout along the empty sea cliff, knowing Hannibal fought to ground himself, the glance at Will’s face gash all-telling.

It was a mess, frantic affair, but anything clean wouldn’t feel right. The pool of blood had grew wider and they hadn’t noticed. It touched Will’s knees, stained Hannibal’s ass. Will eventually pulled back, Hannibal’s length jumping at the friction as both bodies disengaged. Will planted his hands on either side of Hannibal’s head, both of them breathing, and they were content just looking at each other in the moonlight. Waves crashed somewhere down below.

 


End file.
